


Once More With Feeling

by Cunien



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hats, obsession with hats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 11:18:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1686434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cunien/pseuds/Cunien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, fluffy little thing because someone on tumblr posted a gifset of the Musketeers throwing off their hats before battle, and I thought it would be funny to see what happened when someone (of course it had to be Aramis) can't find his again afterwards.</p><p>Just a bit of a fun holiday from writing super dark and angsty Musketeers vs demons over on The Dying Of The Light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once More With Feeling

It takes d’Artagnan a full two minutes to realise what’s different. Aramis sits huddled in the corner of the tavern beside Porthos, with the look of a man who has just been bidden farewell by his lady love. It’s a look d’Artagnan knows from bitter experience, after all.

But there’s something else - he looks...young. Smaller somehow, one hand gripping a bottle of wine like a man dying of thirst, the other winding miserably in his tangled hair. He doesn’t glance up when d’Artagnan and Athos arrive, but Porthos lifts an eyebrow and Athos fairly deflates in frustration. “My God. Not _again?_ ”

“Again,” Aramis sighs, before taking a long pull of wine, straight from the bottle.

“This is getting ridiculous, mate,” Porthos says as Athos comes to sit the other side of Aramis.

Aramis just makes a face, and he’s always been eloquent this way because d’Artagnan can tell exactly what he means to say by it, which in this case is _you don’t need to tell me, Porthos._

“Did someone die?” asks d’Artagnan.

“Yes,” Aramis hiccups, at the exact same moment that both Athos and Porthos chorus “No.”

“Alright,” d’Artagnan says, pulling up a stool and sitting down, “I am _very_ confused. Where’s your…..oh.” 

It’s obvious then, how much younger and smaller the man looks - he’s bare-headed, and his hat is nowhere in sight.

“Your hat? Are you serious?”

“I can’t believe it’s gone!” Aramis wails.

“Aramis, people are beginning to stare,” Athos says from the corner of his mouth before snatching the bottle from Aramis’ grip and taking a long swig.

“I don’t care! Let them see the face of a broken-hearted man!”

“It’s just a hat, Aramis,” d’Artagnan laughs, but the three other men go still at his words and he knows then that he’s said something very dangerous. Athos shakes his head slowly, and Porthos’ eyes widen.

“It is not _just.a.hat,_ ” Aramis says, coldly, “If you were man enough to have one of your own you’d know the pain I feel in this moment.”

“Doubtful,” d’Artagnan mutters under his breath, but before Aramis can say anything Athos jumps in to save him. “How did you lose it this time, Aramis?”

Aramis makes a small sound of grief and flops back in his chair, so Porthos chimes in, “We threw them off before the fight didn’t we? You know, like usual. His was gone by the time we’d finished.”

“We searched everywhere,” Aramis sighs.

“Yeah, we bloody did,” Porthos grumbles.

“So Porthos,” Athos says after a moment, stretching out his legs, “Do you think we should tell him now?”

Porthos seems to consider the question, “Hmm. Well, it’s not his birthday yet.”

Aramis looks between them, utterly confused, and d’Artagnan is glad at least he’s not the only one.

“But,” Porthos continues, “He’ll be sulking like a child for days if not. So yeah, better had.”

*

It’s a few minutes walk to the shop, a nondescript little thing with a painted wooden sign almost entirely obscured by grime. D’Artagnan peers into the window, can just about make out a few dark lumpy shapes within.

“What is this dump?”

“Jean-Baptiste Dufourcq is a fine hat-maker,” Athos says.

“No!” Aramis wails, almost stamping his foot in frustration. “I don’t want another hat! I want my old hat!”

“Aramis-”

“Would you force a man to take a new lover when his has just died?! How can you be so cold?!”

“It’s a _hat_ , I really don’t-”

“Shut up, d’Artagnan,” the three other men answer as one.

“It was perfect,” Aramis says mournfully, “It fit me like a glove. The colour…” he drifts off with a sigh.

Porthos takes hold of Aramis’ arm and steers him towards the door of the little shop. “Reserve judgement for a moment, yeah?”

Inside the shop is dark, and the air is thick with a fog of smells, wet wool and beeswax and something heavy and metallic. The dust motes drift lazily in the thin slanting light from the window, little fibres of wool and fur, and d’Artagnan is overcome for a moment with a sneezing fit, his nose tickling horribly.

“Monsieur Dufourcq?” Athos calls, leaning behind a counter at the back of the room. There’s no answer, but he reaches down and carefully pulls a little man to a standing position, “It’s alright Dufourcq,” he says kindly, “We’re the Musketeers who came in a little while ago, do you remember?”

Dufourcq is a small, quivering man, pale and watery behind his small wire-rimmed eyeglasses. He makes d’Artagnan think of a mole. A twitching, shivering mole. The man blinks at Porthos, standing silhouetted against the meagre light from the windows, but manages to drag his eyes back to Athos, who he seems a little less terrified of. “Oh, yes,” he chirps after a moment, “Yes, Monsieur Athos, yes.”

“Is it finished? Our order?”

“Yes, yes,” Dufourcq twitches, rummaging around behind the counter and drawing out a package wrapped in thin paper. “Here.”

“And the rest of it?”

“Oh yes, yes!” Dufourcq says, hopping with excitement now, “A beautiful thing, a work of art, it’s in the back room, I’ll fetch it, I’ll fetch it Monsieur Athos.” The little hat-maker scuttles off and Athos turns to the others with the paper package.

“Here,” he says, holding it out to Aramis.

“I don’t wish to seem ungrateful,” Aramis says, in a tone that belies his words, “But I don’t want…”

He trails off as Athos unwraps the paper, revealing a grey-blue hat of supple felt, brim curled just so on one side, a swift curl of feather in the brown leather hatband.

“That’s...that’s my hat!” Aramis exclaims, taking a step forward and reaching out with reverence. “Where did you find it?”  
“Dufourcq made it. Didn’t you?” Porthos says as the little man scurries back into the room, carrying something big and heavy in his little bandy arms.

“Oh yes, yes, Monsieur Porthos,” Dufourcq squeaks nervously.

“But it looks just like my old one!”

“Did I not tell you? A fine hat-maker,” Athos says, smiling just slightly.

“And the best bit,” Porthos says, gesturing towards the object that the little hat-maker hefts on to the counter top. “We had a special block made. So the next time you lose your hat-”

Aramis looks scandalised, clutches the hat to his breast.

“-Because there will be a next time, Monsieur Dufourcq here can make you another, easy as you please.” 

Aramis crosses to the counter and smooths a hand over the clean lines of the hat block, the whorls of lime wood solid and shaped like a perfect wooden replica of his hat. It really is a thing of beauty, d’Artagnan must admit. 

“We had it made, special,” Porthos says, grinning.

“This must have cost-”

“Worth it,” Athos and Porthos say as one.

*

Outside they make their way to the tavern once more, a decidedly more jolly Aramis trailing along behind them, fidgeting with the hat he doesn’t seem to be able to stop touching.

“We’ve been saving for months,” Athos says to d’Artagnan quietly.

“So it’s a regular thing, him losing his hat?” d’Artagnan says, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh God, all the bloody time,” comes Porthos’ rumbling reply.

“It’s a nice hat,” d’Artagnan says, after a while, “But...well it’s still _just_ a hat, after all.”

Athos smiles and looks straight ahead as Porthos claps d’Artagnan on the back, “Just wait till your birthday, friend.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Dufourcq exhibits many of the symptoms of the "mad hatter's disease" which is basically a load of mercury poisoning, because this was used to treat the felt. I used some creative liberty here because mercury is odourless so there's no way d'Artagnan could smell something metallic on entering the shop.


End file.
